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Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.

Anne Sexton

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Anne Sexton
Age: 45 †
Born: 1928
Born: November 9
Died: 1974
Died: October 4
Poet
Writer
Newton
Massachusetts
Anne Gray Harvey
Like
Dripping
Enters
Blood
White
Moments
Littles
Little
Love

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Death's in the good-bye.
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Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.
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I burn the way money burns.
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One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.
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Blind with love, my daughter has cried nightly for horses, those long-necked marchers and churners that she has mastered, any and all, reigning them in like a circus hand.
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Then all this became history. Your hand found mine. Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot. Oh, my carpenter, the fingers are rebuilt. They dance with yours.
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Then God spoke to me and said: People say only good things about Christmas. If they want to say something bad, they whisper.
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My mouth blooms like a cut.
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Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.
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Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?
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My husband sings Baa Baa black sheep and we pretend that all's certain and good, that the marriage won't end.
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unless I can shake myself free of my dog, my flag, of my desk, my mind, I find life a bit of a drag. Not always, mind you. Usually I'm like my frying pan useful, graceful, sturdy and with no caper, no plan.
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Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.
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I am a collection of dismantled almosts.
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Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
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life is a trick, life is a kitten in a sack.
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All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.
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Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle.
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If the doctors cure then the sun sees it. If the doctors kill then the earth hides it. The doctors should fear arrogance more than cardiac arrest.
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Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
Anne Sexton